


Your Hands in My Pocket

by oneoneandone



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:42:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27112793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneoneandone/pseuds/oneoneandone
Summary: Nobody was supposed to get arrested.
Relationships: Tobin Heath/Christen Press
Comments: 5
Kudos: 90





	Your Hands in My Pocket

Tobin’s heart stopped when she got the text.

_// 23: So, I’m being arrested. //_

——

Christen swore under her breath as she and the other protesters were lined up and shuffled onto the county bus that would take them to what she assumed was the nearest precinct.

It had been a peaceful protest. She’d gone because it had been promoted as a demonstration of love. Standing and speaking the names of those men and women, those children, whose lives polices officers had ended.

But there had been a counter-protest, of course. A group of gun-toting citizens claiming to be there to protect the city from looting and riots. Others joined, on either side, and tensions rose. Until the police stepped in, and began arresting people.

Arresting the protesters.

Before Chris even realized what was happening, she’d been yanked up from her yoga mat by an officer in riot gear, her hands fastened in front with a zip tie.

They’d given her a cursory pat down, and sat her down on a curb with the dozens of other protesters who’d been arrested.

“Don’t worry,” the girl in front of her said, turning to look at her. “They’ll just take us in and process us. We should be out by tomorrow morning.”

Chris nodded, “I’ve never been arrested before,” she admitted, grateful for the reassurance. “I have a feeling my bosses won’t be too pleased.”

“Ari,” the girl turned and smiled again, “and —“ but one of the cops intervened, telling her to stop talking, to stop turning around.

But still, Chris felt better, less alone.

——

Tobin wasn’t one to panic. Not under normal circumstances. Not even under situations of extreme stress.

Bud hard chill didn’t stretch to the woman she loved being put in handcuffs.

Her first call was to the team’s PR guy, listening to him swear on the other end of the line as she relayed the situation, desperately searching through her pockets for her keys.

“No, Aaron,” she said in frustration, “she didn’t call and give you a heads up that she was going.”

Tobin could hear him fumbling around, and assumed he was getting into full PR mode, pulling out one of his several cell phones to start making calls, getting ahead of the story, all the while still barking at her through the line.

“Because she doesn’t have to run everything by you, that’s why,” she said, lifting her eyes up in gratitude when she finally found what she was looking for, her keys and wallet.

Fed up, and losing patience, she finally broke.

“Just find out where she’s being taken, Aaron,” Tobin said firmly, “find out what station so I can go and lick her up, and once she’s safe you can bitch at us all you want, okay?”

And she ended the call with an angry jab of her thumb, unwilling to listen to him any longer.

——-

Being arrested wasn’t like anything she’d seen on tv. They were herded like cattle through the different steps of the process, but to Christen’s great comfort, Ari was with her step-by-step, always explaining what was going to happen as best she was able amid the constant calls from the officers to be quiet and stop talking.

Ari, it seemed, was an old pro at this.

The process reminded Christen of childhood Sundays spent at church, looking up at the stations of the cross. She was moved from officer to officer—patted down and her personal items collected, fingerprinted, photo taken.

“See, not so bad,” she gave Christen a reassuring smile once they were finished and put into a crowded holding cell. “They’ve got the whole process down now, last time it took them forever to get through is all.”

“So this isn’t your first arrest?” Chris asked her, rubbing at the smudges of ink still on her fingers.

Ari laughed wryly. “Second time this month. I got caught up in a bottleneck one night and spent a weekend locked up in one of these. This time I made sure I wrote the number I wanted to call on something they couldn’t take from me.” And she held up her arm to show Christen the numbers inked in heavy black marker on the inside of her forearm.

“I didn’t even think of that,” Christen admitted, a little concerned. “I managed to text my girlfriend that I was getting arrested, but I couldn’t tell her where I was being taken.”

And, of course, she had no idea what Tobin’s number was. Briefly, she waxed nostalgic over the days as a child when she could recite the numbers of her ten best friends in a snap. “Fuck,” Chris sat on the uncomfortable metal bench bolted to the floor and rested her head against the concrete wall behind them.

“I didn’t think this would happen,” she sighed, sounding a little defeated, “it was just supposed to be a peaceful protest. Love and kindness and justice, you know?”

The other woman shook her head. “You know how threatened the Right gets when a bunch of people get together to promote peace, love, and understanding,” Ari said, “especially when a good number of them are Black and Brown.” She gestured between them and then at the rest of the women in the cell with them, almost all women of color. “It’s like blood to a shark, and the police, well—“

But before she could finish, an officer stepped up to the cell. “Press. Christen Press, step forward,” the older, solid-bodied woman said in a bored tone, scanning the faces in the group.

Ari nodded to Chris. “That’s you, right? Looks like your girlfriend came managed to figure out where you ended up.” And she gave Christen an encouraging smile. “It was nice to meet you.”

——

There were a lot of things Tobin told herself that she’d never do.

Some bigger than others, some forgotten or overlooked as she got older.

And some, so important to her idea of who she was as a person that they acted as a sort of personal Ten Commandments. Sins, digressions, lines she couldn’t—wouldn’t—ever let herself cross.

But she’d crossed one this morning. One of the most important.

And the thing of it was?

Tobin couldn’t care less. She’d thrown her name, her connections, and her money into finding where Chris had been taken as quickly and getting her out as quickly as possible. And she knew that if it came to it, she’d do it again, a thousand times over. A million. As many times as she had to to keep Christen safe.

It had taken her two hours to find out where Chris was. Two hours, what felt like a hundred phone calls, and more than a few favors called in, but soon after getting confirmation, she was on her way to the police station.

There would be hell to pay. For Chris and also for herself. The Federation was pissed off, the NWSL, the Utah ownership, and Tobin knew that those were only the first of the groups that would have a problem with Christen Press, international soccer star, getting arrested. Even if it was unjustified. Even if she’d been there for a good cause, love and peace in her heart.

But as Tobin stood, jittery with nervous energy, in the room where she’d been told that Christen would be brought out, none of that mattered. The only thing she cared about in the whole damn world at that moment was seeing Chris, seeing that she was safe and whole and unharmed, taking her home and wrapping her up in a tight, tight hug.

And then possibly never let her go again.

——

It was surprising to find out that being released from holding took almost as long and had almost as many steps as getting in there.

But then she was led through a heavy metal door, her phone and the other items she’d had on her in a plastic bag, and amid the busy dance of bodies on the other side, she saw the most perfect, welcome sight.

“Tobin,” Christen said, aching to go over to her, but there was still one last document that she needed to sign.

Finally, just a few hours after she’d texted her girlfriend, Chris was finally free to go.

“Tobin,” she said again, this time held tight in her girlfriend’s arms as they stood on the sidewalk outside the police department. But Tobin couldn’t say anything yet. Just held her, as close as she could.

Finally, Tobin’s arms loosened, and she stepped back.

“Are you okay?” she looked Christen up and down, “you didn’t get hurt or anything? I heard there were some protesters who did.”

But Chris just shook her head. “No, I’m fine. Really, Tobin,” she brushed her lips over just the tiniest freckle over the firm curve of the older woman’s jaw.

“You freaked me out,” Tobin whispered, nuzzling into her hair before taking Christen’s hand and heading over to where she’d hastily parked their car. “I got your text, and I couldn’t breathe, I kept seeing all those faces, of seeing your name become a hashtag.”

“Toby,” she whispered, and squeezed her hand. “I’m okay, really, I am. We were lucky, and the women I was arrested with, they looked after me.”

Chris paused for a moment. “I want to pay their bail,” she told Tobin, feeling the way her partner tended as she looked back toward the precinct. “I don’t want to leave them there,” she said in a guilty tone.

And Tobin sighed softly. “How about this,” she brushed a thumb over Christen’s cheek. “I take you home, and once we’re there I call a lawyer and have them go post bail for your friends, okay?”

And she hoped, hoped with everything in her heart, that it would be enough. Because she never wanted Christen to step foot in that place again, not even to do the good work of helping someone else out of it.

After a moment, Chris nodded, leaning into her again. “I really am okay,” she whispered against Tobin’s neck, but she knew, deep down, that she’d carry the fear of losing control, being forced to submit to the authority of the police, for a long time in the dark corners of her heart.

Tobin just kissed her, not caring if anyone saw. “Let me take you home,” she said over Christen’s jaw, and felt the permission in the way the younger woman sunk into her embrace.

——

Even after Tobin got Christen settled in the apartment—gently washing away the scent of sweat and fear from her lover’s skin, wrapping her up in old, soft yoga pants and a holey hoodie, feeding her and wrapping her up on the couch—it took a long time before the terrifying emotions the day had sparked dissipated into the comfort of feeling her girlfriend tucked against her.

She was breathing in the fresh scent of Christen’s citrus-scented soap, just over the crook where her neck meets the gentle line of her collarbone. Her hand slipped under Christen’s shirt, over her firm abs, feeling the way they moved with every breath in and out.

“Things could have gone bad today,” Tobin whispered, images she’d seen played across the nightly news a thousand times spinning through her thoughts. “You could have been hurt, or worse.” Her fingers find a loose string from the waistband of Christen’s pants and worry over it, and she feels the younger woman shift in her arms, angle to get a better look at her.

“They could have,” Chris told her softly, slowly against her jaw. “They could have, but they didn’t. They didn’t, and I’m okay.”

Tobin nodded, but still, there was the ache there in her chest.

An ache that only got worse as Christen looked up at her, looking deep in thought.

And she knew, even before her girlfriend spoke, what she was going to say.

“I can’t go back to Utah,” Chris’s voice was rough. “Not right now. I can’t go back and play in this tournament like things aren’t happening, things that matter. Lives.”

Tobin couldn’t help it, couldn’t keep her muscles from tensing up at Christen’s words.

“You don’t want to play?” And Tobin knew that wasn’t the reason, she knew, but she couldn’t quite wrap her head around what Christen was telling her just yet.

Chris kissed her softly, just over the corner of her mouth, again.

Again.

“No,” her voice was so tender, so delicate and gentle, “no, Toby, you know I want to play. But–”

Christen’s fingers found hers and clasped them together. “There are people out there, people being hurt because of who they are, what they are. People like me. People who look like me.” She kissed her again.

“I can’t leave. There’s work to do, and I have to be a part of it.”

And God, Tobin loved her for it. As much as she was terrified by even the thought of it, of Christen marching in the hot Portland streets, of her hands raised in silent support, her voice in harmony with hundreds, thousands of others. Calling for justice, for equality, for equity. Love in every fiber of her being as she joined her hands with the men and women fighting with her, fighting alongside of her.

“If you stay, I stay,” her lips trailed over the curve of Christen’s jaw. “If you stay and fight, I stay and fight.” Tobin let her thumb draw lazy circles over her girlfriend’s belly. “You march, you protest, you get arrested,” she pressed their foreheads together, feeling her heart thundering in her chest, feeling the warmth of Christen’s breath against her skin.

And at that, Christen laughed softly, and kissed her, sweet and loving and perfect.

“You know there’s no one I’d rather have at my side,” she whispered. “No one but you.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Stories in My Pockets," Sarah Massen


End file.
